The robins came - a week too soon,
Their songs were thin against the chill;
They darted through the afternoon,
And stitched the fields with restless will.
The ground still wore the look of sleep,
Yet crocus tips had pushed and found
A promise they were brave to keep,
Beneath the thawing, stubborn ground.
The forsythia flared at last -
A torch against the waking wood;
It burned a message from the past,
That stubborn roots run deep and good.
The daffodils were bowed and torn,
The tulips wore a sullen red,
As if they knew that spring is born
From all the winters we have shed.
I watched the lilacs twist and yearn,
Their buds still tight against the sky;
And knew some blossoms never learn,
But try again - or try, or die.
There is a way the Earth forgets,
And paints the loss with softer skies;
There is a way the heart regrets,
Yet smiles to see the old things rise.
We hold a season in our hands,
Not bought with silver or with gold -
A little garden stitched from lands
More ancient than the heart can hold.
The robins leave. The flowers fall.
The gate swings slow. The branches swell.
And every spring, despite it all,
The crocus dares. The robins tell.
GBS
2025
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